Hurst made a low pleased noise against her skin, his free hand inching up her skirts to touch the soft skin beneath. She was good, very good, willing and corruptible and so desperate to be told, instructed, used. It was almost more then he could stand. "You are going to be my priestess. My pagan priestess." He told her, murmured against her skin, "You and your gift, your magic, I don't know what it is but you have something, and I want it, I want you." He told her, hand now travelling up her leg. "You and all your spirits and your wildness." He groaned against her skin again, lips at her shoulder now, as his free hand began to unfasten the cords of her dress, letting the sleeves slip down as he sucked on her flesh. "You are to be my wood nymph, my dryad, my spirit of nature, my pagan goddess, and I am going to have you, conquer you as mine." He already had the idea in his head. A tunic, some slip of a thing for her to wear, no shoes, no petticoats, and the woods and the standing stones down by the river edge. And he would have her there, in the long grass and by the trees and she would be his captured little spirit, to please him and the satyrs and all the other pagan creatures that would delight in her, make her breathless and groan.